‘How about that champers?’
‘Oh yes, of course. Just give me a moment to get the flutes.’
I walked to my kitchen and she followed.
‘Hmm, something smells nice.’
‘I’m trying my hand at a roast.’
‘Oh, I hope I haven’t interrupted anything; are you expecting guests?’
‘No, just cooking for myself.’
The champagne cork popped.
‘So, tell me, how was it when you clapped eyes on it at the gallery?’
I told her the story and we were soon in front of the painting again. I mentioned how Shelagh and I had reacted to the work, how our excitement had snowballed. Hannah’s eyes moved from me to the painting, a smile still on her lips.
Before long, we were sharing the roast. The champagne finished, we moved on to the bottle of pinot noir. Hannah was great company: uninhibited, funny and easy to be with. We were soon sharing the couch in the lounge room. It faced the painting and so seemed the obvious place. We talked freely but I didn’t go into details about my meeting with Warwick, the way I had the night before.
What happened in the next few minutes was unexpected, it occurred to me later that if I’d needed to spend time searching for a condom, I might have had time to reconsider. But she had one. Naked on my bed, she looked wonderful. My urges won the battle against my conscience. I was lost in her flesh, her smell, lost in the desire to feel good. In any one moment, there are priorities but there are also options…we find ways.
Then the morning came. As I opened my eyes, reality surrounded me, I closed them again, wanting to pretend that she wasn’t next to me. I was in the bed that Maxine and I had bought three years ago; we had looked at many before we chose it. I hadn’t chosen the sheets Hannah and I were on. I felt ill. I could blame alcohol, it was a factor, but I knew what I was doing. The longer I lay, the worse it got. One salty tear found my lips. I tried to tell myself that Maxine would have wanted me to get on with life. Stephanie had told me that, and Lawrence; even Gloria. But not this, not yet. But it was none of these people who were in my head, screaming at me.
I had to get out of bed, had to get her out. If she awoke, I feared that again I would be challenged. I eased out of bed quietly, my pants in my hand, and was almost out the door when I heard, ‘Oh, are you up already?’
I glanced over my shoulder. Thankfully, it was a cool morning, and she was covered by bedclothes. I muttered something about having to get moving and went to the bathroom. My first thought was to shower but I changed my mind quickly when I remembered there wasn’t a lock on the bathroom door. I looked hard at my reflection in the mirror. I was not confident that the person staring back at me was in control. I breathed deeply.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I did not want her to stay and drink tea but I had to do something. Soon, she appeared in the kitchen doorway, having found my old robe. I turned away quickly, keeping my eyes on the kitchen bench, my head bowed. I breathed in but, before I could say anything, she spoke.
‘Good morning, handsome. Did you sleep well?’
Her voice was deep, sexy, pleased, like a voice that a male lover would want to hear the morning after. But it wormed its way into the ears of someone who did not want to hear it.
My words scratched through the air between us, like static. ‘Hannah, last night was wonderful.’ I turned and looked at her. ‘But it shouldn’t have happened, I am…’ Anxiety shoved me. ‘I am… upset, guilt ridden. I can’t find a way to just accept this. I feel like I’ve done the wrong thing. I mean, the wrong thing by you and by me, and more so by the memory of … Fuck.’ Tears blurred my vision and then found their way to my mouth, a bitter taste I knew. I felt angry. Again, my words moved like static. Then, in a moment of strange clarity, I knew that what had happened somehow this made sense. Yesterday, with Shelagh, I had won the battle and that was a more important one because Shelagh was testing my heart. What had happened with Hannah that I didn’t remember to fight.
The look on her face was hard to decipher; maybe bemusement. Then, with a slight shake of the head, she turned around, as if to leave the kitchen. She took one step, then spun back and walked slowly over to me looking. She was wearing my slippers, which were too large for her and made a shuffling noise on the linoleum. I felt annoyed and wished she wasn’t wearing them. She stopped, and put out both arms. I accepted her embrace but kept body contact to the minimum. She moved her head back, looked at me and smiled an odd lost smile: she was waiting for me.
‘That was, is, our bedroom. I shouldn’t have let that happen, Hannah. You’re beautiful, I wanted you, and I shouldn’t have wanted you…I mean, not here, not now. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right, I get it. Don’t beat yourself up, I’ll survive.’
She turned slowly and left the kitchen, leaving me with my weaknesses and a boiling kettle. After making tea, I moved to the hallway and saw that she had closed the bedroom door. I returned to the kitchen, unsure what to do. I sat on one of the two chrome stools and looked out the window. The clouds were moving slowly, their opaque, pillow-like formations appeared deep and wise, as if they knew things. I don’t know how long I sat there. Then I picked up the kettle to return it to its base, and, from the corner of my eye, saw that she was back. She was fully dressed, her arms folded in front of her.
‘I’m confused by this conscience of yours, Carter.’ She gave an ironic, unconvincing smile. ‘I mean, you fucked me last night, twice, like a man who wanted to fuck. How come you didn’t discover your conscience earlier? It seems to me to have turned up very conveniently, after you got what you wanted.’
The words hurt. Was she right? I did not want to look at her, and stared at the fading wafts of steam coming out of the kettle. I forced myself to face her, again mumbled that I was sorry, and said something about how I should have controlled myself, considered what I was doing.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, Carter, maybe I’m not happy you didn’t discover it earlier, but you were good: a bit quick the first time…but good.’
She turned and moved quickly away. I put the kettle down and chased her, wanting to say something else, all I saw was the front door slamming.
I returned to the kitchen stool, the clouds still bearing witness. I wished they would tell me what to do. I tried to put my emotions in order; asked them to line up like soldiers, so I could yell at them and inspect them, and keep them in place.
I stayed in the kitchen for a long time. It was safer.
Eventually, I showered and got dressed, then walked to the newsagent, bought a newspaper, sat in a coffee shop and drank a long black. Then I bought sandpaper, went home and prepared the front door for a coat of paint.
I avoided my bedroom. I should have washed the sheets, and now it was too late, I could still smell her. I called myself names, threw stones in my direction. Soon, sleep arrived. It was one thing I didn’t get enough of the previous night.
CHAPTER 27
I got up early, loaded the washing machine, then ate breakfast. By mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened and the temperature dropped. I jogged but, as the pavement crunched beneath my dirty joggers, the recent realities re-emerged like forgotten bills. Emotions came back to where reality meets judgement. I tried to pretend I was pleased that there were no other joggers to chase, but my conscience was still chasing me. Shelagh was in my thoughts. She was Hannah’s friend. I shook my head, no. Surely Hannah won’t tell her, surely, she’d be embarrassed by the fact that I sent her packing the morning after, she would say nothing. I should call Shelagh, I told her I would. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Saturday arrived with less drama than the previous day had. I wrestled with tasteless muesli and, as I poured tea into my mug, my mobile buzzed. I listened to the message.
‘Hey, shithead, forgotten about your mates? When are we going to catch up for a beer? Give me a ring.’ I sm
iled. Lawrence’s voice was soothing.
I walked to the supermarket and, as usual, lost myself in its ordered and colourful world of choices. As I looked at the confusing array of milks I wondered if I should be impressed with science’s ability to be specific about our needs but instead found myself cynical about the world of sell, about how much was merely crap. Do we need or do we get told we need? Soon I was home, doing my best to get lost in the newspaper. It worked, the book reviews inspired me. Soon, my fingers were on the keyboard, pushed by optimism and what others had achieved.
How do two strangers, a brother and a sister, meet? I called on my imagination, wondered where you get a literary licence. I needed a starting gun, or maybe a chant, an incantation. I wanted the witchdoctor of ideas to dance around me. Think clearly, I said out loud. My characters were individuals but ultimately would discover they were of the same blood. So what, most brothers and sisters I knew were not alike. But how do I get them to meet? Maybe a conduit, maybe a family member or friend, someone who knows dark secrets and can no longer hide the truth. That person anonymously contacts both twins, mails them an envelope each containing nothing but a copy of a death notice. That might work. I wrote the scene where the mailman calls, delivers an envelope with only one thing in it. My enthusiasm snuck off.
I was annoyed but didn’t know why. Probably remorse but there was something else. Was it due to thinking about families, about children? Max and I had never talked seriously about starting a family. Why didn’t we discuss it? She was well into her thirties. There was little we didn’t discuss. Suddenly I needed to know more about this. I looked at my fingers; they were stretched wide, they were the shape of anxiety. They hovered above the keyboard, waiting for me to decide which of my confused emotions would drive them. I shook my head, my jaw was clenched; why this, why now? I got up, walked around the house, told myself to let it go. We loved each other, there was no rule that said we had to reach a conclusion about everything; there must have been things we didn’t discuss. I opened the newspaper, and there was an article on the environment…was I sure of Max’s feelings about global warming? I had a pen in my hand, and was drawing circles on the back of the envelope my electricity bill had come in. Why did I pick up the pen, why was each circle smaller than the last one?
I went back to my writing, and told myself to think about families in general, not me, not us. I had invented two siblings and now they needed families. Do families make sense, are they about making sense, are they about day-to-day survival? Does a family have a collective personality or is it a set of individual egos all trying to survive? I shivered with agitation, still drawing circles. Did they represent my ever-decreasing understanding? Just write something, just some fucking ideas, something.
I closed my eyes, did the-breathe-in-deeply-then-exhale-slowly thing. It will come, it will gather its own speed, ideas don’t have to make perfect sense and this is fiction. The father will be someone of note. His picture appears in a daily paper, next to his obituary.
And, at the same time in a different place, both brother and sister turn a page, read an obituary, both driven by an inexplicable urge to attend a funeral. They will see each other. Will they acknowledge each other? Will they ask why?
It might work. Timelines had to fit but what age did the deceased need to be? Twenty-five or thirty years older than the two strangers who find each other. I, who did not know and was making things up, was writing about what other people don’t know, about the possibility that what we think can’t exist, might just exist. Suddenly, I was enjoying myself, feeling empowered. Questions were more plentiful than answers, but maybe answers can ruin good fiction? Surely, it’s about questions, it’s about showing, and asking, not just explanations.
They would be twins in their late thirties, about my age; that made it easier. The male wouldn’t be named Warwick, but Warwick’s story would influence me, even if I tried not to let it. The obituary is for a man in his sixties, that’s young to die, so his death must be tragic. I scratched my head and my chin. I hadn’t shaved.
A familiar sound interrupted me, and I reached into my pocket.
‘Good morning, Leonard. How are you?’
‘I am well, thanks for asking. Now, I need to tell you that Vue de Mer is open next weekend. It’s a sort of Mornington Peninsula garden show; you know, they open up gardens of note for public inspection, and Vue de Mer is one of them. I’m not sure if you can inspect the interior of the house and, even if you could, I’m sure it would not be as it was when Elaine was there. As you might recall from a previous chat, we are not positive how much work she did there. It appears L’enfant Perdu was, and, of course, we it would be wonderful if your painting was also. Unfortunately, I won’t be there, I’m part of a panel at a Sydney University forum on modern Australian art. It’s a less-than-exciting group I’m part of, though at least it’s well paid, but I would have loved to revisit the old place. Now I think about it, I might just knock on their door next time I’m down there and demand a look around.’
He laughed heartily at his own suggestion, yet I got a feeling he would do it. Before I returned the phone to my pocket, I made another call, it went straight to voicemail.
Two hours later, I tried again. ‘Hi, Shelagh, it’s Carter. Hope you’re well, just calling to catch up, will try again soon.’
CHAPTER 28
The internet told me that the Mornington Peninsula Gardens Association was having a month of ‘nine important local private gardens’ that were open to the public. A list gave addresses and times, and showed photographs of four of the gardens, most with a view of Port Phillip Bay.
I thought of Adrian Bartlett. He and I had gone to Manningham East Primary School together. In fifth grade, he was my closest friend but only for that year; the next he was gone, I think because of his father’s job. The most memorable part of our friendship was the summer holiday I took with the Bartlett family: ten days at the bayside town of Dromana. We stayed in a fine old Edwardian guest house, with a rambling garden that had large trees unlike any I had known. I wondered now what sort of trees they were. Adrian was an only child, and his father was a big man who didn’t say much, and when he did, it was in a deep voice with a slight accent; I don’t think I ever knew what it was. He was pleasant but always frowning and I never saw him laugh. He spent a lot of the time reading impressive looking books, with heavy red or brown covers. His mother was tiny and attractive, with long light-brown hair. She sang quietly to herself and called me darling. She was tactile, and I enjoyed her hugs.
On the fourth or fifth day of the holiday, Adrian and I were playing in the garden and there was something we wanted from the bedroom we shared, so I went into the house to collect it. As I passed the open door of his parents’ bedroom, I saw his mother and father standing together. His father had his back to me, facing Adrian’s mother. He was clothed, she was naked, and they were just standing still. Then she saw me but, to my surprise, did not react. I was hypnotised, and held my breath; her skin seemed flawless, her nakedness iridescent. She was the first naked lady I can remember seeing. At that moment, her husband spun around, muttered something, and ran to the door and slammed it. I can still see his face: it wasn’t angry, just immensely sad.
That moment was not mentioned again during the holiday. When it was over my mother collected me from the Bartlett house, I heard Mrs Bartlett tell my mother that I was a beautiful boy. As we stood on her front doorstep, my mother told me to thank Adrian’s mother for taking me on holiday, when I did so she again hugged me, it was somehow meaningful, for the last time I looked into her eyes.
It was years later that I saw those eyes again. They were in a painting by an Italian artist, Modigliani. I had thought it must have been Mrs Bartlett, but it turned out he had painted it almost one hundred years earlier. In my teenage years, and for some time after them, I had dreamt of her. I remembered the colour of her eyes, her embrace, her hand stroking my hai
r, and the echo of her singing. In every dream, her husband was crying. I realised it was a long time since I had that dream and then, with surprise, realised that the painting in my lounge room was not the only work of art that had ever affected me.
The website revealed that the garden of Vue de Mer was available for public inspection the following Sunday, between the hours of ten and four, and explained that the renowned artist Elaine Tyson had lived there between 1979 and 1993. The house was built in 1904, by a family named Hegarty who owned bakeries on the Peninsula: ‘the house could not be described as one of the grand dwellings of the era but it offers a good example of the style and décor of its period.’ The website also mentioned that the garden included a magnificent Moreton Bay fig, which was believed to date back to 1892.
I decided I would invite Shelagh to come; after all, we had shared finding L’enfant Perdu. But what if Hannah was there? How would she react to seeing me with Shelagh? I felt uncomfortable, tried to be practical – surely it would not be a problem, we were all adults. Alternatively, I could forget about inviting Shelagh to Vue de Mer, and invite her to another dinner, or maybe to the theatre. But what if she hears about the Mornington thing and calls me, and says let’s go. What then? What if I arrive and they’re there together? That’s possible, they’re friends. The uncomfortable feeling was now a distinct prickle, and I suddenly felt like a married man who was having an affair. I tried to laugh it off, and tried to refill my tank with bravado.
By Thursday, I still hadn’t heard from Shelagh. I tried again, no answer; I left another message. And, again on Friday morning, with the same result. I decided to stop calling for a few days, told myself it was no big deal. I put the phone down and turned to walk away, but then it rang.
‘Hey, you lost my number, or what?
‘Yeah, I deleted it. I mean, who’d want to talk to you?’
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